


the sun, tucked away in her chest

by warandrunning



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: F/M, but really it's hurt/pining, so you're welcome I guess, this was supposed to be hurt/comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-23
Updated: 2018-01-23
Packaged: 2019-03-08 10:32:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13456389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/warandrunning/pseuds/warandrunning
Summary: Deacon doesn’t know what to do with himself when his partner nearly gets herself killed.





	the sun, tucked away in her chest

**Author's Note:**

> “I lived better when I was ignorant of the sun, tucked away in your chest.” — Shitty Horoscopes by Amrit Brar

The faded blue tin kettle whistles happily on the stove, and Deacon trips through the cluttered diner kitchen to hush it.

Too late, though; Fixer groans, which turns into a pained gasp, which turns into a choked “—eacon?”

“Mornin’, sunshine.” He puts on his cheerfulest grin and pours a couple steaming mugs of tea, then sets himself up on the floor next to her sleeping bag.

Her face pokes up from the pile of blankets, and she groans again, hand coming up to massage her throat. “What — shit.”

“Take it easy. We had a little…” he tries not to remember it, fails completely. “Run-in. With some old friends.”

Fixer frowns at him, and tries to sit up when Deacon offers her a mug. He nearly dumps both on her in his haste to help her up, leaning in close to get an arm behind her and ease her into sitting.

She pulls her arm around his shoulders for leverage and her breath is warm on his neck when she huffs, whining again in pain, and it smells like the carrot flowers she chews, and also like morning. She presses her forehead into his jaw, hair brushing his throat, for a moment; he wishes desperately she won’t be able to feel his heartbeat tick up in his neck, wishes even more desperately his heartbeat didn’t do that thing at all in the first place.

She, well, doesn’t smell too great, this close. Like sweat and antiseptic and blood and bourbon. But she’s moving — sort of — and breathing and warm, none of which she’d been last night. Three for three.

Once she’s up, propped against the wall, Deacon backs away, leaving the mug of tea in his place. Fixer closes her eyes and tips her head back with a sigh, exposing the dark purple-bruised skin of her neck. Deacon thinks about reaching out to smooth the swollen, misshapen line of her throat. Draw his fingers down her square jawline, brush the pad of his thumb across her split lower lip.

He doesn’t do that.

After a moment, Fixer’s one eye that isn’t swollen shut peeks open to focus on him. A halo of bright red blood makes green flecks in the hazel stand out all the more.

Deacon pushes his sunglasses up his nose and looks away, anywhere but her face, lands at her hands. Chapped skin, raw knuckles, chipped fingernails. Little cracks in everything. (That’s how the light gets in, he remembers, some line from an Old World song; only in Fixer’s case, it’s how the light gets out.)

“You’re quiet,” Fixer whispers, breaking his reverie. She cradles the chipped ceramic mug in her lap, thumbs tracing worried, insistent circles in the faded paint of a teddy bear’s face.

Not much leaves Deacon speechless, she’s right. But it’s not every day you see your partner nearly get turned into hamburger by some asshole in power armor.

He rallies to crack another smile, this one a little crooked. “What can I say?” he drawls. “I’m speechless in the presence of Sleeping Beauty.”

Fixer’s mouth quirks upward, like he’d hoped, and her eye closes again. “How bad is it really, Deacon?” Her breath rattles. “Because it doesn’t feel great.”

It’s no wonder she doesn’t remember. Hell, he wishes he didn’t. But it’s there every time his mind drifts, so it’s not hard to fill her in on what the Raider did to her. The laundry list of injuries looks something like this:

  * Bruised, maybe partially crushed windpipe. From the choking.
  * Broken nose. (Again. How many times now?)
  * Black eye. Look, this will go faster if he just says her face is a mess and advises her to avoid mirrors for a while.
  * Broken glasses, which she’s arguably more upset about than anything else. “It’s hard to find my prescription!” Fixer croaks, dismayed.
  * A busted-up knee.
  * At least five cracked and/or broken ribs, probably more, and it’s safe to say all twenty-four are good and bruised. From being kicked around a little, then stepped on a lot.
  * Also from above incident: Internal bleeding? Jury’s still out, so a Minuteman medic is on the way.



Fixer swears, quiet and vicious.

“Just — drink your tea,” Deacon says. “And maybe don’t move at all.”

She sips, makes a face.

“What, what’s wrong with it?”

“Nothing, just — throat hurts,” she whispers. “And it got cold.”

He takes the mug from her hands and takes it back to the stove to reheat.

While he’s tooling with the kettle, Fixer says, “A Minuteman medic?”

Deacon shrugs expressively, back to her. It’s not like he doesn’t want to get into the mental calculus that led to him digging through her bag for the Minutemen walkie-talkie, ignoring all his screaming instincts to share their location (on an open frequency!) and ask for medical assistance. It’s just that — he wasn’t sure she’d make it through the night, let alone the extra day (days?) waiting for an underqualified Railroad agent to show up.

There had been so much blood, bright and wet and slick, and now even though he got most of it cleaned up, there’s still plenty dark and crusted on her skin, her clothes, her hair. It’ll never come out of his own favorite white tee. (Because he definitely wants a souvenir from last night, thanks.)

“The Castle’s closer,” he says simply.

Deacon can feel Fixer’s stare boring into the back of his neck, and when he turns to look at her, her chin has that tilt. The one that says, _You think you’re slick, but I’ve got you figured out, you hopeless sap_.

She opens her mouth, and Deacon says, “How are you feeling? Need a stimpak? You look like you could use a stimpak.”

He produces one from their bag and is back by her side before she can start asking probing questions.

When Fixer offers up her arm, her mouth goes still, her look introspective. Deacon takes hold of her forearm just below the elbow to keep her steady. He glances up at her, but her gaze is fixed on their arms, brow furrowed.

“Ready?” He asks, and she just nods. Her fingers twitch, brushing his bicep, when he pushes the needle into her vein, followed by a small sigh of relief.

Deacon releases her arm and starts to pull away, but Fixer grabs onto his hand and holds tight. She tilts her head to look at him intently, and all the breath’s knocked out of his chest.

“Deacon,” she whispers, squeezing his fingers. “Thank you.”

He carefully, so carefully, covers her hand with both of his, just for a moment. Her skin is hot — practically on fire, from fever, or something else — and it burns right through his palms.

Deacon lets go of her hand and clears his throat. “Aw, don’t mention it,” he says, and grins at her. Then he beats a hasty retreat to the stove to get her a fresh mug of tea before he does something stupid.

By the time he comes back, mug renewed, Fixer’s face has gone soft and still, and her breathing’s slow and steady. Deacon pulls her blankets up around her shoulders, then posts up next to her to wait for the cavalry to arrive.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!! I'm restivewit on Tumblr if you want to say hello.


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